


niveus

by nekostar



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Anniversary, Clothes Porn, Domestic Fluff, Endearments, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Lace Panties, Laughter During Sex, Lingerie, M/M, No Feminization, Old Married Couple, Panties, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Stockings, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27158035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekostar/pseuds/nekostar
Summary: For their fifth-year anniversary, Mr Credence Graves gifts his husband, Mr Percival Graves, the delight of dressing him up—no matter the cost or style.Mr Percival Graves takes full advantage.
Relationships: Credence Barebone/Original Percival Graves
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46





	niveus

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween, friends!
> 
> this fic, while set in the same universe as my other fic _hypaethros_ , can be read as a stand-alone. 
> 
> the slutty lingerie bonus fic promised from chapter 9! i've kept this separate bc it didn't quite fit the style. this is just a fun pwp. i've left a link to my writing tumblr in the end notes :)
> 
> i just want to point out a specific tag, however-- NO feminization. i deliberately chose this tag, and wrote this fic, with this in mind. i personally LOVE reading feminization fic, esp with lingerie, however, i do not feel like it matched the tone and characters that i wrote in _hypaethros_. credence, in these fics, is male-presenting and amab, wearing altered lingerie that was not intended for a female-presenting body. therefore, this fic does NOT contain the typically found slut-shaming, p***y substitute, babygirl, daddy dom, etc in lingerie fic. (i'll be in my bunk writing that fic later...)
> 
> if this is disappointing for some of you, i'm sorry! fortunately, there are many great fics out there with feminized credence in lingerie, which you can find in my bookmarks if you so choose. if this makes some of you happy, i'm glad! if you don't care either way, read on!

Percival Graves, quite possibly, is both one of the easiest men to buy a gift for, and the hardest. After five years of marriage, Credence Graves still isn't entirely sure he always hits the mark.

Credence's go-to is always some sort of fashionable apparel. His husband does love his clothes and accessories, after all, and is always looking forward to the next update. Credence would call Percival obsessed. Credence, on the other hand, would be quite content to wear the same suit for five years—which he has. (He'd rather wear Percival's sweaters all day, anyway.)

But it's been five years of the same idea—as much as Credence knows Percival would love any sort of new attire, Credence worries that the gifts will eventually fall flat.

So Credence starts to plan, and then ends up blurting it all out anyway, because Percival isn't the best Auror in MACUSA for no reason.

"You're worrying about something," Percival says, while they play Wizard's Chess after dinner. "Normally you're much closer to beating me. Check."

Credence starts, unaware he had been lost in thought, then scowls when he sees what's become of the chessboard. His remaining pieces look furiously close to stabbing him with their needle-sized weapons, their Irish brogue trampling over one another with curses. "I've been thinking about what to get you for our anniversary."

Percival blinks. "Are you having difficulty choosing something from the catalog?" Credence typically chose something right from Percival's personal tailor's brochure, which came to the brownstone bimonthly. "Or deciding between a couple of things?" Sometimes he wasn't sure what to go with when there were two wonderful options.

But neither of those are the problem this time. Credence frowns. "No. No, I. Well. It's just. Are you not— _bored_ with the same thing every year?"

Percival looks horribly amused. "Is this it, darling? You've grown bored with an old man?" Percival teases. Credence huffs at him, so he continues. "I like what you get me. I like that you choose something for me to wear, and that you get it personalized. And it's not like you've got me the same tie for every occasion—you mix it up."

"I know you could never get bored of clothes," Credence says dryly, "I just thought maybe you'd like something—different."

"Do you want something other than art supplies?" Percival asks, curious.

"Well, no, I still want that easel," Credence says slowly. "And the gouache. But. It's been five years. That's big, right? Should we do something more—special?" Maybe he was spending too much time with Queenie, the biggest romantic he knew (after Percival, of course).

Percival hums, steepling his fingers and leaning back in the armchair. "Well, what do you want more of?"

"...Art supplies?" Credence says sheepishly, unable to come up with anything else. "What about you?"

"Clothes," Percival smirks.

Credence rolls his eyes fondly.

"Well, we've got a month," Percival says. "Let's see what we can come up with."

* * *

Percival comes up with something the very next day, because he's a fiend like that, and also because he's clearly been thinking about this for some time.

"I know what I want for our anniversary," he says pleasantly, over the breakfast he cooked. Percival had become proficient in breakfast foods in the past five years: he has a wonderful relationship with the toaster, which hardly ever smoked at him, and has perfected how Credence likes his eggs. Occasionally, he still struggles with bacon, but Credence is happy enough that he never has to do anything in the morning but make coffee and watch Percival cook shirtless that the bacon doesn't really matter.

"You do?" Credence responds, picking up his toast and running it through the egg yolk on his plate. "That was quick."

"Oh, I want clothes," Percival says.

Credence gives him an exasperated look. His husband is a silly man, for someone so seemingly austere. "Original."

"But I want clothes for _you."_

Credence stops the toast halfway to his mouth. "For me?"

The smug looking face Percival gives him sends shivers up Credence's spine. He's not sure if they're good or not—they're just a side effect of Percival looking handsomely at him. He sets his toast down before he drops it.

"Yes, clothes for you. I want to go all out—I want you to let me blow a fountain of dragots on you, dress you up in whatever I like, and have you wear it for a day."

Credence winces, and tears into a piece of bacon. He regularly doesn't even consider buying _bacon_ when it's gone up in price at the market. He knows what kind of money Percival spends on his own suits, and what kind of money Credence refuses to spend on his own. "You really dream big."

Percival turns back to his newspaper. "Or we can do the usual," he says casually, like he doesn't care at all.

The challenge of it all prickles at Credence. He's normally quite laid-back, but Percival riles him up like no one else.

"Like what? What do you want to dress me in?"

Percival shrugs. "Oh, a suit. A couple other things."

Dangerous.

"You're being purposefully vague," Credence accuses.

"Yes," Percival laughs. His smile nearly distracts Credence. "An addendum; _and_ I want it to be a surprise. With no complaints. About the money, that is. If you don't like it you can complain all you like."

"You've thought about this before," Credence says suspiciously. Percival is a _planner,_ like Credence, but unlike Credence, he has an infinite amount of patience that means he usually gets his way, no matter what.

Percival shrugs.

"Do I have to know how much money you spend?"

"No, of course not. I'd like you alive after."

Credence grimaces, but promises to consider it.

* * *

Credence agrees to it at the end of the night, because clearly it's something that Percival wants, but hasn't said anything. He's possibly wanted it for years.

"I still don't know what I want, though," Credence says.

"You have a month," Percival says victoriously, looking like the panther animagus that caught the charmed paper bird. "Why don't you make a list? Don't even think about it. Just jot down stuff you've thought about. Things you've thought about for a long time, things that come to mind—just don't think about reasoning."

* * *

Credence's list starts like this:

  * _Art supplies:_
    * _Easel_
    * _Gouache paints_
    * _Pencils_
  * _Salted almonds_
  * _Flowers_



It stays like this for an entire week, because Credence has difficulty not thinking about logistics—how long it'll take to get, how expensive, whether or not he actually needs it, practicality, etc. He posts it on the fridge and Percival inspects it every morning, expression politely unchanging.

On the eighth day, Credence carefully writes:

  * _Cheese croissant (that I don't have to make)_



When Percival raises an eyebrow at that, Credence shrugs, only a little embarrassed.

"They're difficult because of all the layers."

* * *

One Sunday morning, after two weeks, Credence is idly watching Percival shave in their ensuite from the comfort of their bed. Percival doesn't often let the stubble grow for longer than two days, but Credence has always liked the way it looks. Has always liked the way it drags across his body, friction creating gooseflesh and heated skin. How it leaves him sore later on. Likes the way it sharpens Percival's cheekbones, making him look dangerous. A little like a criminal. Credence bites his lip to stop himself from letting out a noise, thighs squeezing tight against each other.

"Percy," Credence says impulsively, just as Percival raises the blade to his lathered cheek.

"Darling?"

"Come back to bed?"

When they eventually emerge for breakfast in the late afternoon, Credence, sex-addled and flushed, coy and embarrassed, adds:

  * _No shaving for a week._



Percival levels a devastating look at Credence that makes him want to drag Percival right back into their bedroom, breakfast be damned.

"I like the way it feels," Credence sniffs, pressing his hands to his silk robe, cool against stubble-reddened inner thighs.

"You always complain after," Percival laughs, but he cages Credence up against the fridge and kisses him silly. Deep and warm and slick, much too intimate for the kitchen. Credence has to clutch Percival's tank top to stop himself from melting to the ground, body overheated.

"You like when I complain," Credence mumbles against Percival's lips when his husband finally pulls back. He's a little dizzy, and Percival is so distracting with his body crowded right up against Credence, hands warm and low and possessive on the younger man's waist.

"I really, really do," Percival agrees. He looks much too smug and put-together after what he just did to Credence, so Credence drags his fingers through Percival's hair, messing it up, and then drags him back to bed.

Breakfast can wait. The coffee needs time to brew, anyway.

* * *

By week three, Credence selfishly comes up with another idea, but it's so outrageous that he refuses to even entertain it. He stubbornly doesn't put it on the list and instead distracts himself with trying a new bread recipe in the kitchen. Percival, naturally, notices it immediately.

"There's something you thought of yesterday that's missing," he says, frowning at the list on the fridge.

Credence shrugs, forcefully kneading the dough. "It's nothing."

"Darling," Percival says reproachfully. "Didn't I tell you to write it down, no matter what?"

"It's just not feasible, Percival," Credence sighs.

"I'm a wizard and a Graves," Percival says imperiously. He's puffed up like a strutting peacock, and Credence is torn between teasing him and wishing this conversation would end immediately. "Credence, sweetheart, there isn't anything that I can't get you. Tell me."

"You're a very important man," Credence acknowledges dryly. That's the problem, though. What Credence wants—

It's not possible.

"Don't worry about it, okay?" Credence tries. "Maybe next year." Never, really. He's just been riding the high that the silly little list has given him. Unfortunately, it's also given him unrealistic ideas.

Percival stays silent for a moment, studying him. "There's still time," Percival says quietly. "It doesn't necessarily have to be for our anniversary, either. Just think about it, all right?"

"Sure," Credence says. It mostly doesn't feel like a lie.

* * *

The night before their anniversary, Credence is splayed across Percival's chest, dozing gently after a round of enthusiastic sex. He feels syrupy and warm, ready to drift off and dream of all the things Percival did to him just mere minutes ago.

"Did you think about it?"

The rumble of Percival's chest startles Credence out of his near-sleep.

"Think about what?" Credence mumbles, but as soon as he says it, he knows what Percival is asking about. Credence stiffens a little; Percival strokes his shoulder in comfort.

"Credence, darling," Percival prompts him gently. "You can ask anything of me."

Credence is pretty sure Percival has never said _no_ to him before. Quite frankly, he's not eager for it to happen.

"It's hours until our anniversary," Credence murmurs. "Not possible."

"So tell me now and I'll get it for next year," Percival coaxes. "Unless it's an erumpent. That's grounds for divorce."

It _feels_ just as big as an erumpent. Credence stays quiet, conflicted.

"Okay," Percival relents, much too easily. "You can have an erumpent. But it has to stay with Scamander. Your kneazle would have a fit, otherwise."

"She's yours on Sundays," Credence sighs. And every other day of the week, as soon as Percival comes home from work. Credence is pretty sure Mildred wouldn't leave Percival's lap alone if he spent more time at home. She and Credence fight over it all the time already.

"Sweetheart," Percival cajoles. Credence sighs again, rolls off of Percival, and wraps his arms around Percival's shoulders, pulling his husband on top of him. He loves being caged in by Percival's body, feels safe and like nothing bad could ever happen to him.

"What if it's too much?" Credence asks quietly.

Percival barely blinks, looking so serious and solemn, even with wild bed-head. Credence itches to fix it for him, but that would involve letting go of him. "If I can give it to you, I will. And if I can't right now, then I will when I can."

"I want you to take Saturdays off, too," Credence whispers into the crook of Percival's neck. "I know it's stupid and unreasonable—"

 _"Darling,"_ Percival interrupts, so achingly gentle. "No, it's not." He stays quiet for a moment, contemplating. "Tina's a captain, now," he says thoughtfully. "She can handle a little more responsibility. We've no worry about money." He pauses to kiss Credence's cheek. "Credence, you've wanted this for a while, now. Why didn't you say anything?"

"You're important," Credence mumbles. People rely on Percival. The President of the country relies on him; the whole _country_ relies on him. "To more people than just me."

"Credence," Percival says seriously, thumbing his cheek. "You are the most important person in my life. _You_ come first."

"How can you say that when it's been your job for over two decades?"

"I've dedicated half of my life to that job. I think I can afford to dedicate another _day_ to my _husband."_ Percival kisses Credence soundly, like he's kissing all of Credence's worries away. "Let me talk to Sera. I don't know when, and if I can get every single Saturday—but I'll squat in her office until she at least agrees for every other Saturday, and then I'll annoy her until she gives me the others." Intense and sincere, Credence wants to believe him. Has always believed in him.

"Okay," Credence says, small. "Okay."

"Okay," Percival agrees. "I told you anything and everything, for the rest of our lives, sweetheart. I keep my promises."

* * *

On the night of their anniversary, Credence emerges from their ensuite in his robe, drying his hair with magic, when he spies the suit laid out on their bed. The jacket is black and gilt and _sparkling,_ most likely made of silk and real gold, and Credence immediately wants to _die._ He throws himself dramatically onto their bed instead, careful not to wrinkle the clothes.

"Don't die in there, darling," Percival calls cheerily from the hallway, like a Legilimens. "Can I come in now? There's another part."

"Yes," Credence groans.

Percival comes in carrying a white, ribbon-wrapped box. "What do you think?"

"It's very beautiful and I'm sure _very_ expensive," Credence sighs. "What's this other part?"

"Ah. Well." Percival almost looks nervous. Credence blinks and sits up, curious. He's seen Percival nervous exactly twice: first, when he asked Credence on their first date, and second, when he asked Credence to marry him.

"What?" Credence asks in trepidation.

Percival merely hands him the box, coming to sit beside him on the bed. Credence carefully pulls the bow apart and lifts the lid, placing it beside him. Then, he peels off a sticker and unfolds the tissue paper, and his mind blanks out.

Something bright white, delicate, soft, and _lacy_ is nestled inside.

Credence's mouth goes dry. "I don't—you want me— _Merlin,_ Percy."

Credence likes pretty things. Percival likes pretty things. Percival especially likes calling Credence pretty, when they're wrapped up in each other and Credence can't squirm away. Everything in this box is undeniably, astonishingly _pretty._

"I'd like to put it all on you," Percival says lowly, "if that's acceptable."

Credence stays quiet, swallows nervously, and hands Percival the box.

Percival starts with the stockings. They're thinner than the tissue paper, sheer and snow-white and seamless. Credence has never seen such a ornate lace pattern as the one adorning the welt. He can't believe something so beautiful and delicate is going on _him._

Percival carefully bunches them up to place Credence's toes in, and Credence has to bite his lip to stop himself from telling Percival to be even _more_ careful, they're so fragile and pretty and surely can't be treated like that. As Percival gently slides it up over Credence's toes, his ankle, his calf, his knee, to snugly fit around his thigh, the whisper-soft caress of the stocking, and Percival's fingers guiding it, make Credence tremble. Gooseflesh blooms all over him. He feels like he does when Percival kisses him to dizziness.

"That was just the first?" Credence says weakly, nearly shivering. He's not sure he can survive another.

Percival hums, eyes piercing. "May I?"

Credence swallows tightly and nods.

The second stocking feels even more intense than the first. Credence knows what to expect, but the _anticipation_ of Percival's sure hands along his legs, the final snap of the tight lace band at the top around his thigh—the thoughts make Credence's hands shake, waiting as Percival bunches up the second stocking.

"Are you feeling okay?" Percival asks quietly, after he's slid the second one on, thick eyebrows knitted in concern.

Credence nods, but stays quiet. Speaking seems—monumental.

Percival trails his fingers along the edge of the black silk robe Credence is wearing, causing a spark of heat to flare in Credence's abdomen. The bottom just covers the tops of the stockings, and wearing only those three things—Credence feels indescribable. He's on the edge of a precipice, not sure where he's going to fall.

"Ready for the next part?"

There's more? Of course there's more. Half-measures are not in Percival's vocabulary, unless he's chewing out his Junior Aurors for them.

"Okay."

The next item out of the box makes Credence squirm. As white and as elegant as the stockings, Percival unfolds the entirely-lace item. Credence has never seen anything like them before; a triangle of filigree with an extra bump of fabric in the front. He feels his face flush red. The stockings were one thing—but these are an entirely different situation.

Are they still women's underwear if Credence is going to be wearing them?

Percival holds them up as Credence steps into them tentatively, bracing himself on Percival's shoulders.

The way they mould around Credence—a perfect fit—makes Credence suspect that while they're still— _panties_ —they're made for men.

Made for _Credence._

"Was this a custom order?" Credence asks hoarsely, as Percival straightens up. Credence keeps his hands curled in the shoulders of Percival's dress shirt, worried he'll fall over on his shaking legs without the support.

"Yes," Percival hums, dragging assessing eyes down Credence's lower half. Credence squeezes his thighs together, chews his lip.

He has _so_ many questions. "Why white?"

Percival drops a kiss on Credence's neck, just under his ear, creating a new bloom of gooseflesh along his skin. "I like you in white. Next part?"

"There's more?"

Percival smirks. "Yes."

Credence swallows, half-nervous, half-excited. He lets out a slow breath. It's cool in the room, but the heated touch of Percival's hands burn Credence's body like no _incendio_ ever could. "Yeah. Okay."

Percival kisses him on the mouth chastely, pulling back far too quick that Credence nearly whines. Then, he pulls out what Credence is almost certain is a corset. There's no boning, just all lace, like the panties. With its short length, Credence thinks it won't entirely cover him—and that means Percival has something else that will.

"Can I lace you up?" Percival murmurs in Credence's ear.

Credence shudders, twisting his fingers in Percival's shirt so hard that he knows Percival is going to have to cast a charm to iron the wrinkles out. "Yes," he answers breathily.

"Thank you," Percival says.

"Oh, you're welcome," Credence croaks. Percival huffs a laugh, nosing at Credence's cheek. He pulls apart the knot of Credence's belt, letting the silk robe slide off, and sends it floating towards the wardrobe with a wave of his hand.

"Turn around."

Credence does, feeling oddly vulnerable and naked, though he's still technically covered in the stockings and panties. He's glad he's not near the mirror, that it can't make comments and that he can't see himself.

Percival strokes his knuckles down the naked length of Credence's spine at first, sending shivers throughout his body. Carefully, he wraps the gossamer fabric around Credence, guiding his arms through the dainty straps, and begins to thread ribbon through the loops at the back. He doesn't tie it particularly tight, but every criss-cross of the ribbon and brush of his fingers make Credence feel like he's losing more and more breath. The hem rests just above his navel, leaving an expanse of creamy skin between it and the panties. The final knot of the bow, Credence lets out a shaky exhale, and he hears Percival do so similarly behind him.

"You like this?" Credence asks, able to, now that he's not looking directly at Percival. "You like me—in this?"

"I like it very much, darling," Percival murmurs in his ear, gently resting his hands on Credence's hips. "I like that you're letting me, especially."

Okay. Credence can work with that.

"Next?" He guesses.

"Next," Percival answers. He turns Credence around in his arms. He wraps a garter belt, white silk and lace, around Credence's waist, zipping it up in the back, letting little elastics dangle metal clips against Credence's thighs. The brush of fingers against his lower back make Credence's stomach jump in excitement; he wants to feel Percival dig his well-manicured nails into Credence's hips.

Percival gets on his knees to clip the stockings, and Credence has to look away before he ruins Percival's hard work.

"That is _not_ what you should be doing if you want me to keep this outfit clean."

"I'm hoping we won't keep it clean for long." Percival stands up when he's done clipping everything, pulling Credence into his arms while Credence's mind reels from that comment.

"I feel like sin incarnate," Credence mutters, hiding his face in the crook of Percival's neck, switching his tight grasp onto his husband's waistcoat lapels. He's not entirely sure he can keep himself upright. His legs feel like the jelly-legs jinx has been cast on them, and for the life of him, he can't remember the counter-curse.

"You look it," Percival says in agreement, sighing as he takes in the sight of Credence. "Thank you for letting me do this, Credence. You look even more gorgeous than I knew you would." Credence has no idea what to say to that, so he merely hums and pushes himself closer to Percival. "Ready for the suit?"

Credence's mouth goes dry. "Are we—are we going for dinner?" With the lingerie on underneath?

"I'd like to," Percival says. "Once you're all dressed. If you're amenable to that."

Merlin's balls. Credence can't think.

"Just—put me in the suit."

Percival dresses him as carefully as he did the previous— _apparel._

"Sock garters?" Credence asks hoarsely, when Percival pulls them out. "What, one garter wasn't enough?"

Percival merely quirks his mouth and continues his ministrations, kneeling.

"They won't—cause runs?" Ladies are always concerned about that—right? No-maj ones, anyway. Seraphina never wears anything that aren't pants or full-length skirts, Queenie never looks like there's a single hair out of place on her head, let alone a run in her stockings, and Tina can't be bothered to wear them.

"They're charmed," Percival assures him.

"Of course they are," Credence breathes out, laughing a little. "It's like we're wizards, or something."

"Imagine that," Percival says pleasantly.

The silk pants glide unbelievably smooth and cool up Credence's legs, aided by the stockings. It's an odd feeling at first. The underwear, snugly fit, however, feel comfortable and unbunched like his typical ones, though they seem somewhat high over his cheeks. It's a far cry from the union suits he used to wear. It's a feeling he could possibly get used to. Christ, if his Ma saw him now.

Percival doesn't bother with an undershirt—Credence suspects because of the... corset. He holds the black dress shirt by the shoulders, letting Credence slip his arms in, before buttoning it up by hand. It feels like when Percival was tying up the corset, except this time, he has to look Percival in the eye as he looks devastatingly handsome and intense. Finally having a shirt and pants on, Credence begins to feel more like himself. Steadier. Then Percival slips the waistcoat onto him, and buttons him in, and that goes entirely out the window.

It's a perfect fit, but unlike the typical undershirt, he can feel every detail of the corset, now pressed tightly against him. Moving pulls the lace across his chest, dragging tantalizingly over his nipples, making them pebble. The feeling trails all the way down to his groin. Credence blushes, and clears his throat, trying to focus on what Percival's doing next.

Percival has diamond cufflinks. Credence wants to hate how good it feels just to have his wrist-bones stroked, but everything Percival does to him is sensual no matter how mundane, the instant his hands are on him. Percival kisses Credence's ring after fastening the cufflinks, and Credence lets out a lovesick sigh.

Then Percival pulls out a cravat, and Credence wants to sulk.

"You're really getting your money's worth," he mutters. They're so fussy-looking. He'll look like an absolute moron.

"Kidding," Percival laughs. "I'd never do that to you, darling." He pulls out a bow-tie adorned with gold and black panther clips, a chain connecting them. Credence lets out a exhale of relief. They're ostentatious and possessive and slightly ridiculous, but they're fierce and beautiful and most importantly, _not attached to a cravat._

"Acceptable?" Percival asks.

"Yes."

Percival ties it on, then folds in gold and white pocket squares. As the final piece, he conjures a single dahlia flower, its petals red-black and stunning against the suit, and tucks it in the pocket.

Percival sighs heavily, eyes half-lidded, and brushes his knuckles along Credence's cheek. His eyes are dark and intoxicating. "You look exquisite."

Credence feels _expensive._ And like he's wrapped like a present.

He can't wait for Percival to peel it all off.

"Let's go to dinner."

* * *

They go to _The Phantasmagoric Phoenix_ every year for their anniversary. It's elegant, and tasteful, and makes Credence's favorite dish—not to mention, it's the location of their very first date, six years ago.

Just the short walk from the apparition spot, to the hostess, to their booth, however, has put Credence on edge. He can feel every single bit of the soft lace caressing him, feeling so different under regular clothing. The pants swish against the stockings, cling to the panties; the waistcoat hugs the garter belt and corset into his torso like a second skin. He knows, logically, that no one can see what he's wearing underneath the suit—but it feels like every single person they pass by _knows._

He and Percival are not much for public displays of affection, but he feels startlingly shy—like he hasn't since six years ago.

"Percy," Credence murmurs in Percival's ear as his husband takes his evening coat. "Sit beside me?"

Percival doesn't even blink. "Of course, darling." He'd give Credence anything, no question or hesitation.

Credence slides into the booth first, and feels immeasurably better when Percival slides in, hiding him from sight, hand firm upon his knee.

It's just one layer of silk fabric between Percival's hand and Credence's leg wrapped in stockings. If he drags his palm any further up Credence's thigh, he could feel the pattern of the lace welt.

"All right, sweetheart?"

Credence simply hums, slipping his hand overtop of Percival's, intertwining their fingers. His ring sparkles in the candlelight, and Credence's heart thrums.

"I love you," he says quietly. "Happy anniversary."

* * *

When they apparate home, Credence carries Percival over the threshold, both of them laughing breathlessly. The silly tradition they do every year loosens Credence up a little, gets him thinking about things other than what he's wearing underneath his suit. They stumble over each other, pulling each other into their room, kissing and unbuttoning as they try to make it over to their bed.

As Percival peels off their suit jackets and waistcoats and dress shirts, letting them float over to the wardrobe, Credence feels nervous again, but excited, like every time they ever tried something new in bed their first year of dating.

He never thought he'd be excited for something like this.

Eventually, Percival is naked, and Credence is standing in front of the mirror, seeing himself in the lingerie in full for the first time. The white lace is beautiful and decadent and sensuous and _sultry,_ and it makes Credence feel the same. The slight peek of the bottom of his cheeks under the frame of the panties make his rear look fuller, the garter clips holding up the stockings make his legs look like they go on forever in sheer white. The corset and garter belt nip in his waist in such a pleasing way, giving shape to his normally straight, long torso. Credence had difficulty before understanding what Percival would like so much about Credence in lingerie, but now, he's starting to understand the appeal. It's not a thought he has often, but—Credence thinks he looks beautiful. And feels a little—dangerous.

"Look at you," Percival sighs, pressing up against Credence from behind, arms like steel bands around his waist. Credence shivers, and leans his weight back into Percival. "You're a vision, Credence. Thank you for this."

When Percival goes to unlace the corset at the back, Credence puts a hand on his arm. "Wait."

Percival listens attentively, eyes piercing into Credence's soul through the mirror's reflection.

"Do you—I—what if," Credence bites his lip, hard. He can see his own eyes are dark, cheeks flushed already, sees the pink carrying down his neck and above the corset. Sees how _hungry_ Percival looks, drinking in the vision of the two of them entwined; Credence in the outfit Percival ordered specially for him, personally dressed him in. "What if—I kept it all on?"

Percival nods, getting impossibly closer, curving his body around Credence's. Credence thinks back to just hours ago, when Percival was on his knees, clipping the stockings, and he had to look away. How if he looked too long—dinner reservations be damned, they would never have left their bed. How he'd make a mess, _be_ a mess.

"It's just—you went to all this trouble. It would be a shame if—if we didn't get to ruin it, at least a little."

Percival gives him a surprised, pleased little smirk. He looks positively devilish; Credence isn't the only one looking like sin incarnate. "I'd _love_ to ruin you in it."

"Kiss me, Mr Graves," Credence says thickly.

"Of course, Mr Graves," Percival returns. He starts dropping kisses along the side of Credence's neck, pulling Credence's hair smoothly away in a firm fist, tilting his head just-so. His other hand drags reverently down the front of Credence, palming at his stomach, ending right on the garter belt, just above his groin. Splayed fingers possessive and burning. Credence moans, warming up deliciously, rocking back into the cradle of Percival's hips. In a flash, Percival has let go of him, and then picked him right back up, bridal style, like it's his turn to carry Credence over the threshold already.

Credence lets out a tiny gasp, nearly undetectable, but he thinks Percival feels it against his throat, anyway. Percival carries him to their bed, lays him down gently, covers his body with his own, never truly letting go. Credence shuts the drapes on their four-poster bed with a wave of his hand. They’re seldom used, but Credence is feeling shy and vulnerable, like he can’t be hidden away with Percival enough. 

"Why white?" Credence gasps out as Percival sucks a bruise onto his collarbone. His fingernails dig into Percival's muscled back, pulling groans from the older man.  


"I knew how gorgeous it would look against your skin the instant you blushed," Percival husks out, stubble rubbing just under Credence's jaw. He unclips the stockings from the garter belt, one by one, and Credence shudders, tightening his thighs against Percival’s hips to try to pull his husband closer. "I love painting you in white."

"Percy," Credence whispers desperately, already beginning to ache with need, can feel the beginnings of Percival's own arousal pressing against him, _"fuck_ me." His cock is starting to fill out and strain against the lace, oh-so-softly contained by it.  


As Percival gets his hands in the panties to peel them down, fingertips resting right in the vees of his hips, Credence grabs his hands. He tries not to think of the last time Percival had his hands there—when he had pulled out of Credence, leaving him squirming with want, _so_ close to orgasm, and let his release fill the shallow lines leading to Credence's cock. _Marking_ Credence, and then dragging his fingers through the mess, across his abdomen, slicking up Credence's cock, and then sinking down on top of him, to finish Credence off. Made him see stars.  


"Can we—" Credence feels wickedly hot, chest heaving with rapid breaths, "can we keep them on?"

"Of course, darling," Percival says lowly. Parts of his carefully gelled hair have come undone, falling over his face. With his unshaven cheeks, dark, intense eyes, and muscled, naked body, Percival looks absolutely _sinful._ The opposite of every blond avenging angel Credence had ever seen in church. Like he's going to thoroughly debauch Credence, and knows Credence will _thank_ him for it, after. "Anything you want."

"I want you to ruin me in this," Credence blurts out before he gets the idea to stop himself. "Merlin, Percival—I want you to _ruin_ me."

Percival slams their mouths together, practically devouring him. It’s exactly what Credence wants; to be held down in his delicate underthings, secreted away in their little nest, and be made a meal of. Percival presses him down heavily into their plush bed, makes love to Credence's mouth with a wicked tongue and stubble-surrounded lips. Credence can barely keep up, just goes along for the ride Percival's taking him on; almost feels come-drunk already, with how dizzy Percival is making him. His lips feel bruised and thick and hot, and he never wants Percival to pull away, until the older man does, and continues his assault down the rest of Credence's body.  


_"IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou,"_ Credence babbles as Percival sucks bruising, claiming kisses down his throat and chest, roughing him up with stubble, biting at a nipple through the lace of the corset. Credence gasps, and Percival pushes a hand down the back of Credence's panties, gripping a cheek tight in his fist, pulling their groins together. They're both _so_ achingly hard, and Credence can feel both of them surging up against the lace panties, soaking them through with precome. 

Ruining him won't take long.  


"I fucking love you, Credence," Percival growls, gripping the nape of Credence's neck, fingers threaded tightly through his curls. Credence's heart is going a mile a minute; he's so sure it's going to explode with desire. They grind up against each other so intently, it feels like Percival is trying to fuck him through the panties. "Baby, talk to me; tell me what you want me to do to you."

"I want your fingers in me," Credence says immediately; not a moment later, he gasps, as a magic-slicked finger presses into him, up to the knuckle. "God, Percy, I love your fingers, I love your hands on me." Credence could die happily on Percival's fingers, loves it even more when Percival uses his left hand and leaves his ring on. It's a delicious dichotomy of right and wrong; the caress of his husband's wedding-ringed hand, rendering him filthy and speechless so intimately.  


"I could feel the stockings under your pants when I had my hand on your knee at the restaurant," Percival says, continuing to slide into him with just a single finger, just the right amount of rough. Credence immediately wants another, but Percival always worries, _and_ likes keeping him on edge—he could play Credence like a fiddle, the devil. "I can never wait to get my hands on you, but that nearly killed me."

"Please don’t die before you fuck me," Credence chokes out. He's half-joking—if Percival keeps going, Credence is going to come anyway, but he'd much rather do it while Percival thrusts into him with his thick cock, reaching depths his fingers can't.  


"You’re so fucking—" Percival cuts himself off, laughing. He looks so devastating, so unbearably handsome. Credence is _so_ lucky. "Fuck, I love you, sweetheart. You look so fucking _gorgeous."_

Credence squirms, breath hitching as Percival’s finger barely brushes against his prostate, intentionally teasing. "Percy, I love you, _give me another."_

"I _love_ when you're greedy," Percival sighs. "I want you like this all the time. You deserve it."

Obligingly, the next thrust of Percival’s hand gives Credence two slick fingers, stretching him open deliciously, pressure just right, hand fascinatingly trapped against the lace panties. Credence moans, fingernails digging into Percival’s biceps. His breath comes in heavy pants; unexpectedly, he loves the way the corset is tight against him. 

_ I want to do this again,_ Credence thinks wantonly. _I want it to be even tighter. Something around my neck—_

"Another, another," Credence pants, mouthing at Percival’s pulse. His eyelashes flutter; he wants to shut his eyes in pleasure, wants to watch Percival come undone as he makes Credence do the same. "Percy, _please."_

"You sure?" Percival asks; at Credences desperate whine, he relents. "More lube?"

"Mm-hm," Credence gets out, humming against Percival’s neck. He thinks of the first time Percival made love to him, and of a thought that he had tucked away for later. One they had come close to, many times—but not quite like this. "Lots, I—I want you to _ruin_ me, remember? Make a mess out of me."

_"Fuck,"_ Percival intones. His eyes sparkle in the low light, and Credence is still so in love, will be, forever.  


"Yes, please," Credence laughs, delirious with pleasure as Percival presses a third finger inside. Moans at the addition, slick and rubbing deliberately into his prostate, milking out precome from his cock, continuing to make a mess inside the panties. Percival's cock is heavy and hot against his, and Credence can't stop rocking up into it, desperate for Percival to fill him up.  


Percival smiles down at him. "Have I ever told you how much I love it when you laugh?"

"Even when you’re inside me?"

"Especially then. I can feel you tighten up and squeeze and shake."

"Romantic," Credence laughs, blushing. He thinks his whole body must be pink with arousal, thinks that Percival was right in choosing white lingerie. Wonders what it would look like, in turn, on Percival. Tucks the thought away for later.  


"I aim to please."

"Aim a little—God, yes, right there, Percy."

"You’re so pretty like this, on my fingers," Percival grunts out. "You're so fucking stunning, Credence. Do you want to come, sweetheart? Make a mess for me."

Credence whines, on the brink of tears. He's close, spine a tense rod. Percival's fingers always bring him to the height of pleasure, but— "But you’ll fuck me after, right? Percy, I promise, I can take it, I need you, I won’t be too sensitive for it, please, I want you to just take me—"

Percival bites at a nipple through the lace; Credence cries out and comes. He goes heavy and pliant against their bed, melting like chocolate on a hot summer day.  Blinking blearily, come-drunk and blissful, Credence whines a protest when Percival pulls out of him, and whines in interest as Percival drags down the panties with his teeth. 

"Just a little cleaning, sweetheart, you won’t be happy when it’s cooled," Percival says, leaving the panties around his knees. Credence feels delightfully trapped; thinks again about a tighter corset, something around his neck, maybe something tying him down. 

"Okay." He doesn't really even know what he's agreeing to, floating on the high of an orgasm—just knows that the tone of Percival's voice means he's taking care of Credence.  


Credence shudders when Percival takes him into his mouth, hot, wet, firm sucks that make Credence grip his fingers tightly in Percival’s hair. He's been wound up and then released, overstimulated, and he's desperate to get fucked. It feels good and bad and like not enough and too much; he wants Percival to both stop and never let it end.  


When Percival finally pulls off, satisfied like a cat with the proverbial cream, Credence lets out a distressed mewl, half-relieved, half-annoyed. 

"Kitten," Percival smirks. 

"Stop," Credence mumbles in protest of the pet name, still embarrassingly high-pitched. The noises Percival pulls out of him, both in bed and out, make his entire body burst into flames. Percival nips at his inner thigh; Credence’s leg jerks in surprise and delight. Tomorrow, on their day off, he's going to ask Percival to eat him out until he's crying from the stubble burn.  


"Percival," Credence says insistently, knocking his knee into Percival’s side. 

"It’s all straight to business with you, isn’t it?" Percival sighs, sliding up Credence's body, kissing along the sharp cut of Credence's jaw. "No foreplay with you young people."

Credence blushes and rolls his eyes. Percival _would_ consider one complete orgasm foreplay. "You just like delayed gratification, Mr Graves." He can't begin to understand how Percival is still so hard, has restrained himself from grinding to completion against Credence, hasn't rolled him over and just _taken._  


"Truly, I have a wicked husband," Percival says mournfully. Then, he smirks. "There’s never been a better match than us, Mr Graves."

"Your _wicked husband,"_ Credence says, heart jolting, never over hearing Percival call him that, "has been waiting _very patiently_ for you to have your pleasure and way with him. For some reason."

"It’s the love, I suspect."

"No wonder you’re the best Auror in MACUSA." Done with waiting, Credence pulls Percival in with arms around his neck, peppering kisses along his jaw. 

"Percival," Credence says lowly in his ear, nipping at it, "would you turn me over and make love to me?" His heart is still racing, but he's ready, ready for Percival to push into him, fill him up, make him filthy.  


"Anything, darling," Percival sighs. He rolls off of Credence gracefully, and Credence misses the heat until Percival pushes up against him from behind. Credence takes a deep breath and exhales slowly; on Percival's side of the bed, he can pick up hints of his husband's cologne and shampoo and sweat. It's a scent that both calms and riles him. The panties are twisted and lock his knees together; he feels delightfully trapped in the darkness of their bed, Percival nestled behind and grinding into him.  


He both feels and hears Percival shudder as the older man takes his cock in hand, stroking himself to complete hardness, before tapping the sticky, spongy head against Credence's rim. The noise it makes is obscene against Credence's stretched, wet entrance, and it makes him blush even harder, lose breath a little faster in anticipation. Credence moans and rocks back into Percival's hips, trying desperately to get him inside and deep.

"You ready?" Percival husks out in Credence's ear.

Credence has been ready since Percival slid the stockings up his legs like he was making love to them. "Yeah, come on, Percy, fuck me." 

He can feel Percival's shoulders shaking. "Who taught you to swear like that?"

_"You_ did."

Percival presses in slowly, and Credence is almost immediately back on the brink of tears, speechless and overstimulated. He loves it, and hopes that Percival doesn't think he wants him to stop. It's such a deep ache, and one that only Percival can fill. When Percival finally bottoms out, they groan in unison, and Credence melts into the bedding just as Percival gets harder, picks up the pace just a little faster. 

He's relentless, but gentle. It's a horribly pleasing sensation. Every stroke rubs against Credence's prostate, pulling whines out of him that later on, he'll remember and be embarrassed by. He doesn't even care if he comes again, as long as Percival keeps going, stays inside him, fills him up over and over.

"You feel so good, baby," Percival nearly growls in his ear, dragging his teeth against the slope of Credence's neck. Credence squirms, spine arching, toes curling. Percival only calls him _baby_ when they're in bed, and with the way he looks, he sounds like a mob boss. "You're so gorgeous; so smart and strong and funny and I'm _so fucking lucky you married me."_

Fucking on their right sides, Percival’s left hand grips Credence’s, wedding rings clinking and pressed tight against Credence’s stocking-clad thigh. Though it's somewhat awkward, Credence twists around enough to slot his mouth against Percival's. Uncoordinated, but still feels so good and tantalizing. The pressure in Credence's groin continues to build, overheating him. Impulsively, he drags his nails down his own chest, pinches a nipple overtop of the lace corset, making his breath hitch. 

"So pretty, Credence," Percival groans into his mouth. Credence blinks frantically, trying to hold back the tears of pleasure, panting into Percival's mouth. It's less kissing than it is sloppily licking at each other, swallowing noises and breaths. He's so warm and protected and safe, wrapped in the arms of his husband, lost to pleasure. "You'll come for me again, won't you, sweetheart?" Obviously, _obviously_ he's going to—  


Percival rocks into him, snaking his other arm under Credence's waist and pressing his nails into the trail of hair leading to Credence's cock. The touch sends Credence rocketing, seeing stars. When they come, one after the other, their fingers squeeze together, and Credence hears a faint rip. He makes a mess all over his front, over Percival's fingers, dripping down his stomach and onto the sheets. Percival fills him up, groaning deep in his ear, stilling inside him. Makes a mess within. Stays deep in Credence the way he knows Credence likes, after they've made love. He rubs his tear-stained face in Percival's pillow, then he turns his head to look at Percival behind him.  


"You said," Credence gasps, hysterical giggles bubbling in his chest, "you said these were charmed against runs!"

Percival grins smugly at him, laughter in his eyes. "You think stockings are a match for Graveses?" His voice is hoarse and so deep. Credence preens the tiniest bit, because _he_ did that.  


Credence swats his husband’s chest. "When I told you to ruin me, I didn’t mean _this."_

"Looks like I’ll just have to buy you more."

"Yeah," Credence laughs breathily in anticipation, already thinking of what color Percival might choose next. He hopes it’s black. Hopes that Percival buys himself some matching ones. "Yeah, you will."

He reaches behind him and rests his hand on Percival's jaw, pulling him into a soft kiss. "Was this your plan all along?"

Percival shrugs an elegant shoulder.

"Let me—let me rephrase that. Did you get what you wanted for our anniversary? There's nothing left out?"

"Everything was perfect," Percival murmurs, catching his hand and kissing his ring.

Credence sighs. "Good. I'm glad. I—I liked it, too. A lot."

"Happy anniversary, darling."

"Happy anniversary, Percy."

**Author's Note:**

> silly credence, the counter-curse is just un-jellify!
> 
> a single dahlia means good taste. they can also mean finding inner strength, grace, elegance, commitment, honesty, kindness; they "make a good gift for someone you admire or perceive as a strong person."
> 
> i was gonna be a cliche with a red rose, then i thought black rose, then i thought--what's a black dahlia look like? well the perfect fuckin marriage my friends. (we're just gonna ignore that the black dahlia has negative meanings.)
> 
> ("During the Victorian era, dahlia flowers symbolize a lasting bond and lifelong commitment between two people.")
> 
> imagine me, talking about flowers when this fic was supposed to be useless smut lmao.
> 
> let me know what u think! <3
> 
> \---
> 
> find me at tumblr [desk-of-nekostar](https://www.desk-of-nekostar.tumblr.com)  
> i'm a multi-fandom ho but i've been trying to tag everything <3


End file.
